


Next

by flight815kitsune



Category: You're Next
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Gen, POV Second Person, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:31:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of You’re Next, wherein Erin becomes a killer, too. Takes liberties with how ambiguously the killers are set up in that film, may be more canon divergent if i continue it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next

It wasn’t a clean death.

They never really were.

That wasn’t what this was about. You donned the mask, took your pay, and you _played_.

 

It was an anonymous letter that had gotten you into this. Apparently taking out a bunch of masks had cleared a space for you. They had been smart about it- it wasn’t until after you had been cleared of any and all charges (months later you wonder if they had pulled strings to get you loose), after your wounds had long healed, and after all of your anger had had time to fester that they had sent the small envelope.

 

It was a dated method of communication. Handwritten like a pricey wedding invitation, the calligraphy requested the honor of your presence. It would have been easier and safer for them to send you a text or email. Harder to track. Or a phone call from a spoofed number if they had wanted to keep a more personal touch. You should have called the police. They might have been able to trace it. There were forensics and they could probably tell by the dust in the glue who had sent it. But… the police didn’t stand for what they used to anymore. They were as powerless as anyone else, and just as stupid.

 

You didn’t call the number inside for days. When you do, you get an automated message. The calm electronic feminine voice gives you the address to a cheap motel a few miles away. 

The man at the front desk seems to think you're an escort. He gives you the room key with a smile that reveals far too many gold and grey teeth and a wink.  

 

The calm words from a masked figure (A lion. That was probably supposed to be symbolic. King of beasts or something.) promised employment. Release. Anonymity.

When the mask you’re offered has the face of a ‘roo, you laughed for the first time in months.

“Were they all out of drop bears?”

You couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not because of how it fit his face. You like to think he was. 

 

You take the mask.

 

The first assignment they give you is little more than a hit. A business partner looking to simplify things at his company.

 

You use the gun they give you. With your looks, it was easy to get the man to stop and help you by crying crocodile tears into your phone and feigning a breakup. Who wouldn’t offer a pretty blonde a ride home?

You shoot him in the gut and take his wallet. It almost makes up for the way he touches your cheek and calls you “Honey”.

It's easy to pretend the dirtiness you feel is from his touch and not the voice asking for confirmation on the other end of the phone. 

 

The next assignment puts you with a bear. He comments on your hair, your figure. Questions your abilities. You aren’t allowed to kill him, but you  _are_ allowed to kill the people in the house.

When he sees the way you wield a knife, he stops joking.

The body count ends up being four. You do your share quickly, he takes his time.

 

They stick you with him for the next few assignments. You don’t talk to him. He acts like you do, carrying on one-sided conversations through gunshots and bludgeonings. He's impressed by the way you swing a hammer, and laughs when you admit a meat tenderizer worked better. 

 

You can’t say you miss him when they stick you with a new man who wears the face of a wolf, but you miss the dark humor and the way you could tell he was human beneath the mask.

 

They stick you alone for a woman who needed to get her abusive husband taken care of. She requested a female, and they were happy to oblige. There was a local sicko that had a very specific method of taking out young women.

Asphyxiation with pantyhose. Dress them up pretty. Paint their lips with one specific shade (You aren't sure if they know which color because the lion has someone in the police department, or if one of you is the one doing this in the first place). Light the flames.

They don’t know whether to count yours as a revenge killing, a copycat, a change to the killer's MO or something completely new.

You smell like burnt hair and can’t quite forget the crackle of burning flesh.

  
  
  


This one had hired you and never paid up. Well, not  ** _you_**. The man in the lion mask knows that you hate inheritance kills. He had sent Monkey, Badger, and Horse on that one.

But now you had a man who would kill his whole family to get money to play with. A bastard like him had once forced you into the role of prey. With this one, you’re nothing but predator.

 

You taze him to force him to his knees. The blow to his head was probably overkill, but you weren’t going to risk it. You know how to tie a knot. It’s easy to bind his hands.

The hardest thing is loading him up to take somewhere private. He's heavier than he looks and bulkier than he had any right to be. The backseat of a stolen car serves its purpose. If anyone bothered enough to see, hopefully your soft words would be considered the nagging of a wife to her drunken husband and not a killer criticizing her victim's waistline.

 

There were dozens of abandoned houses like this. This one had a very sturdy showerhead.

You tie him to it, not giving him the privacy of facing the tile. The rope cuts into his wrists, making his hands go red and purple.

You tear his shirt open with the aid of a blade. Remove one of his nipples as a wakeup call.

He screams, but a punch to the kidney forces the breath from his lungs and makes him finally look at you.

Good.

He knows who you are, and why you’re doing this. He stares into the eyes of the mask rather than yours and begs to the plastic anyway. 

You jam the knife upward into his gut in an attempt to shut him up. It’s not quite a scream; it’s a choked aborted sound.

"I thought I would get more." The words were a mournful groan.

Things are foggy red as you drive the blade in again and again. Your face is hot under the plastic and your own voice punctuates each thrust with a grunt.

“Pleasepleaseplease” It’s a gasping desperate song. The blood dripping down is a hectic drumbeat, primal in its rhythm but a mere shadow of the noise that would accompany him if you simply turned on the water. 

He bleeds out slowly. You sit atop the closed toilet seat and watch him go into shock and slowly slip away.

 

The next call comes in and your voice isn't even shaking when he asks you how things went. 

"It wasn't a clean death." They never were.

The lion's breath into the receiver was amused. You can't help the way your own lips quirk up in response to it.

Something’s wrong with you, but the world's gone to hell(even though not enough people have realized it) and you’re alive.

That’s what your dad taught you to be, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> rewatched this the other day and remembered i had this on my tumblr. figured I'd share. Also working on some other junk, if all goes well I'll be updating one of my other works within the next week. =)


End file.
